


Tea and Crossbows

by abhorthealien



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 19:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abhorthealien/pseuds/abhorthealien
Summary: What happens if you put together a former Templar and an Antivan noble, throw them through hardship and defeat, and a duel founded on a false relationship? A story of Cullen's feelings concerning Josephine: from irritation back in the days of Haven, to... something else, shaped through the inevitable peculiarities of the lives of two of the Inquisition's leaders.Oh, and tea. Never forget tea.





	Tea and Crossbows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ginipig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/gifts).

Cullen looked at Threnn's ledger regarding the latest procurements of food supplies for the troops in the Hinterlands with a resigned sigh. With the Herald at Therinfal, his workload on matters concerning the Inquisition's military had significantly increased: Andros Trevelyan might have been an arrogant and ruthless figure, but he had a keen grasp of logistics, and logistics of a force in the field was the one military art that being the Knight-Commander of a city's Templars did not prepare one for. He could train men, lead men, discipline men and inspire men: supplying men was a different matter.

Thank the Maker for Threnn, controversial though her political opinions were.

"Commander Rutherford, we have a problem." A voice with the gentle lilt of an Antivan accent roused his attention from the ledger. With a weary sigh, he turned around. Ambassador Josephine Montilyet stood there, a surprisingly stern expression on her face: it was an expression unbefitting someone usually so mild-mannered. "The delegation to Redcliffe still haven't returned."

Cullen frowned. He hadn't paid much attention to the diplomatic side of things in his already significant workload, but it was true: the delegation sent to negotiate with former Grand Enchanter Fiona should have returned at least three days ago. "Is it so unexpected for negotiations to have lasted longer than expected? Sister Leliana is a fierce negotiator and it is likely that the mages of Redcliffe are... hesitant about us."

"That is not Leliana's way. She'd have sent back news about any unplanned delays." Lady Montilyet stepped closer. "Something must have happened. I know it."

The thought of something having happened to Sister Leliana seemed... odd. Cullen felt as if someone tried to stab her, the blade would be too terrified to actually pierce her skin. But Lady Montilyet had a point: the silence from Redcliffe was curious.

"I'll muster a detachment to go see what is up with Redcliffe." Cullen nodded. "To depart today. We'll find the Redcliffe delegation, Lady Montilyet. No need to worry."

"I'm coming."

It took Cullen a few seconds to process the request. "No, you are not, Lady Montilyet. This is a military operation: it is _ dangerous. _ And I mean no disrespect, but you are no fighter."

The Antivan stepped close to Cullen, glaring into his eyes. "Leliana is the _ one _ friend I cherish on this world. If there's the possibility that anything might have happened to her, I'm coming. That is not negotiable."

Cullen raised a brow. Gentle and polite Montilyet might have been, but those eyes had... steel in them.

"Do you have armor?"

Lady Montilyet raised a brow. "Armor? I... no. I don't have armor."

Cullen shrugged and returned to the ledger. "Threnn, take Lady Montilyet to the armory, if you would. Find something that fits her well enough; as close to a complete set as you can find. Not too heavy, preferably. It'd be better if she doesn't suffer a heat stroke."

The Antivan raised her chin in mild indignation. "Surely this isn't-"

_Civilians, _ Cullen thought. _ No idea whatsoever about war. _ "Lady Montilyet, if Sister Leliana is late in her return, it certainly won't be because she took her delegation out for celebratory drinks. We are going to march down to Redcliffe looking for a threat. I understand if you want to assist your friend, but you are not marching into potential danger wearing a dress." He shrugged. "You are coming in armor, or you are not coming."

"_ Fine. _" The Antivan shook her head in open indignation. "As you wish, Commander Rutherford."

* * *

When they made it into the village of Redcliffe, Cullen still hoped that this whole operation would have been a waste of time. Right up until one of the villagers they questioned spoke one word that froze his veins. _ Magister. _

"Maker, Leliana... _ Tevinter? _ Why did you even stay to negotiate after that?" Lady Montilyet paced around in abject irritation. If the thought of Tevinter's fingers in the mage rebellion hadn't disturbed him this much, Cullen might have counted his blessings: at least while she panicked about her friend she couldn't complain about the armor. 

But it _ had _ disturbed him that much. A Tevinter magister in the rebellion... the rumors they had heard of the Arl of Redcliffe being driven out of his own castle now made a lot more sense. The castle that now towered above them, underneath a serpent banner. The brazen brandishings of a Tevinter symbol in the heart of Ferelden made him want to laugh. 

"The last farmer we... talked to claims that the Vints are vacating the castle." Cullen stored away the whetstone, satisfied with his sword's condition. "From here I can see barely anyone on the watch. If there's anyone left inside it is a skeleton garrison."

"How does that help Leliana?" The Antivan snapped, turning towards Cullen with burning eyes. "She may already be dead!"

"She may, but she may not be. And it helps us by ensuring we don't have to send word to Haven and wait for reinforcements before we have the numbers to storm that castle." Cullen had ordered preparations for the assault earlier that day. Admittedly, he had not brought that many men: merely fifty, but nearly thirty of that were former Templars and six others trained Circle-mages. He had expected facing a wrathful mage rebellion, hence his fellow former Templars... but now that Tevinter was involved their presence proved a lot more reassuring.

Lady Montilyed sighed loudly. "I'm... sorry, Commander. I did not mean to take my fear and anger out of you."

"No need to apologize." Cullen stood up. "Elf, I need you to take rest of our archers and get up to that ridgeline. Anyone who pops above the wall when we attack, shoot them down." In their lack of expectations of an attack and their apparent preparations to vacate the castle entirely, the Tevinters had left even the front gate of the castle open. If they moved quickly enough, they could be inside before anyone managed to raise the alarm.

"Elf? Stop calling me that, Commander Stuck-up." Sera threw her tongue at him. Cullen shook his head in disbelief. That tiny elf the Herald had managed to find and bring along from _ somewhere _ was certainly useful in a fight: one of the best archers the Inquisition had, but Maker she was utterly infuriating.

"File down your ears and I won't. Rest of you, to me. Arms at the ready, move quickly, make no noise unless you hear the alarm. _ If _ you hear the alarm, I want you to raise an unholy cacophony. Let's put the fear of the Maker in those Tevinters." As Sera departed with her archers, muttering something that was undoubtedly a few curses targeted at him, Cullen turned towards Lady Montilyet. He'd been arguing for the past hour, unsuccessfully, to convince her to remain behind while they attacked: at least he had managed to convince her to stay in the back rank.

Grudgingly, that is. She had too much of a warrior spirit for a woman who had never fought before and was not even armed: Cullen had insisted she not bear arms, and Montilyet had not exactly argued on that matter. She wasn't going to be able to use a sword or spear to any real effect, and having one might have tempted her into trying. He did admire her tenacity, though, even if it caused him problems.

"Keep your head down and stay out of the fight." Cullen said as he put on his helmet, looking at Ambassador Montilyet for one last time. Beneath the helmet Cullen had insisted she wear, he could see her biting down a lip: the Antivan was not nearly as stoic and fearless about this as she pretended to be.

With Cullen at the lead of a loose column, the men descended downhill on the path leading up the castle, and silently jogged towards it. They were more than halfway through when one of the very few guards patrolling the walls noticed them. His alarm cry was cut halfway through when two arrowshafts materialized in his chest. 

The castle awakened in commotion, and Cullen raised his sword. The time for subtlety was over.

"Into the breach! Kill every Tevinter you see!" Cullen broke into a sprint, wishing to break through before the portcullis could be lowered. To their credit, the defenders did almost manage it. Until one of their mages reached out and pushed the metal grating upwards with all his sorcerous power, that is. As he dashed through the door, Cullen heard the portcullis' mechanism begin to audibly crack.

The surprise was total. Cullen cut down a Tevinter spearman before he could react. His shield deflected the blow from a two-handed axe and the former Templar skewered him through chain mail. And then his men were at his side, forming into rank of battle with telltale Templar efficiency. 

Men fell from the ramparts, shot down by Sera and her archers. Men fell to the ground, stricken by Templar blades or spells of the few mages Cullen brought. 

And then something exploded next to Cullen, throwing several of his former Templars aside, their bodies charred.

There, hovering among the scattering Tevinter soldiers, stood a man in robes. His hair balding, his eyes squinted thin, his lips curled upwards in glee. He raised a hand, and a bolt of fire streaked towards Cullen.

Cullen reached inside, to the lyrium in his veins and the empty certainty. He reached outside, to the reality around him, and anchored it where it stood, as was the way of the Templars. The bolt dissipated into air as it came close to Cullen.

He cut down yet another Tevinter, one who had strayed too close to the battle line for a man wielding a crossbow. And for a brief moment the path to the mage was clear. With an almost reflexive prayer at his lips, Cullen charged.

He could clearly see the sneer on the mage's face. The mage drew a dagger from his belt, a bejeweled, ornate thing, and stabbed it into his own hand. Blood congealed in his hand, dark and terrible. Every instinct hammered into Cullen in years of training shrieked out: _ Maleficar! _

He reached out and anchored the reality into what it is. Moments after, the blood in the mage's hands burned, and a torrent of fire rolled over Cullen.

This was no ordinary fire. Its flame burned blood red, its crackling whistled a cursed melody. As if it had a life, the flame pressed down on Cullen's little bubble of reality, and began to squish it. 

Cullen gritted his teeth, followed by a shout of white-hot pain. Blood magic filled the world around him, its scent thick and cloying, and the heat of fire so close stole the breath from his lungs. His vision began to grow dark. He took one forced step towards the mage, then another. Lyrium in his veins began to burn. 

Then the fires vanished.

Cullen opened his fire-seared eyes to the mage, eyes open wide and face frozen in shock. Thin, bony hands reached out towards the crossbow bolt lodged in his throat. Then, with a faint gurgle, he collapsed.

With their maleficar dead, the fight went out of the Tevinters. One by one they dropped their arms and tried to yield, or ran in every direction as fast as their legs carried them. Cullen breathed deeply. This was but the first step, but the courtyard was now theirs.

There was one puzzling question, though. None of his men carried crossbows. Only Tevinters. He turned around.

Ambassador Montilyet stood there, in the middle of the impromptu half-circle their line had devolved into. She clung to an empty crossbow, visibly shivering, barely holding on to the weapon.

Cullen walked towards her. In the silence that ensued in the battle's aftermath, he could hear her breathing: faster than it humanly should be, fast enough to choke her. The breaths of utter panic. She dropped the crossbow, and took off the helmet with shaking hands, letting it fall as well. 

She looked down at her hands. Her eyes grew wide in horror.

"Lady Montilyet." The words did not follow. Cullen stood there, struck without words. What would he even say? He tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. "Josephine, I-"

The Antivan sprung like coiled wire at his touch, and threw herself against him, breathing in panic against the metal of his breastplate. Cullen, unsure, slowly put an arm around her shoulders, and said nothing.

How would you console someone who took a life for the first time in her life?

* * *

Around the camp, it felt as if the snow was going to bury everything. Bury the shattered remnants of the Inquisition, the way they had buried Haven.

Cullen found the Ambassador seated near a fire that was as far as it could be and still be a part of the sprawling camp around them. The Antivan sat near the fire with a blank expression, hugging herself. She wore a thick woolen coat with a fur cloak thrown over her shoulders: the blistering cold of the Frostbacks were still foreign to her.

And to him, Cullen privately acknowledged. It wasn't like his days in Ferelden and Kirkwall had prepared him for mountain life.

Without a word, he took a seat next to her. Lady Montilyet turned towards him, her movements slow. Her eyes questioned, though she said nothing.

Cullen raised one of the earthen cups in his hands towards her. "I thought you would like some tea."

"Thank you." The words came in a dull monotone, but she took the cup, wrapping her fingers around it to warm them.

Cullen took a sip from his. It had an aroma of cinnamon, honey, cloves, and something he couldn't quite place. The liquid was just below scalding, but he was too cold to care. The tea poured down through his throat, warming his insides.

"We lost everything, didn't we?" It felt to Cullen as if minutes had passed in silence when Ambassador Montilyet spoke. "Lost... everything."

Cullen tried to say something, something inspiring and emboldening, but every word he could think of to that effect felt... hollow. "We did." He sighed in resignation. "Our army is smashed, our center of operations is gone, the morale is rock bottom. We've almost lost the Herald, even."

Montilyet nodded, absent-mindedly. "Be honest with me, Commander. How do you see our chances?"

"I don't even _ see _ them." Cullen snarled, angry at defeat. "For all this time we worked with everything we had to make the Inquisition as strong as we could make it. We trained soldiers, made contacts, agreed on deals. And then came this... Elder One and _ smashed us to kindling. _" 

The Antivan snorted. "You... aren't doing a particularly good job of inspiring."

"And would I be fooling you if I said that we would surely recover and avenge Haven very soon?"

"No, I don't think you would." Lady Montilyer nodded slowly, taking another sip. "Making people believe that we're stronger and more capable than we are is my job, yet I can barely convince myself of that let alone the others."

Cullen half-turned towards her. "The most I can tell you is that I don't intend to give up. I did not leave half my army at Haven just to lie down and let their deaths be in vain."

"That, we can agree on. After all... this whole venture of us _ was _ a mad struggle with only the barest hope of success even before this." She paused for several long seconds, biting down on her lower lip. "Listen, about what happened at Redcliffe Castle..."

"You don't have to talk about it." Cullen cut in. Redcliffe was one subject they had not breached during the weeks between then and their desperate flight from Haven: after what seemed to be a visceral gut reaction Lady Montilyet had been rather rapid to recover, and had been insistent on not talking about the subject. "Killing someone... the first time is rough. I would know."

"That's the point. That wasn't the first time I... took a life. Back in my younger, more carefree days, I used to be a bard." Montilyet sighed. "I know. You can hardly imagine _ me _ as one."

In his younger days, Cullen might've felt shocked that Montilyet used to be a singer. But after working for so long with an actual former bard and two nobles that fit the typical image so well they would bleed blue if you cut them, he had learned what an Orlesian bard actually was.

"There are two shades to a bard's life. On one side are the masks, the smiles, the songs and the intrigue. The air of romance. And then there's the truth beneath the gilded exterior." She finished her tea. "Thus, there are two kinds of bards. Those like Leliana, who live in it. Breathed in it. Knew what it was all about. And intoxicated fools who are ensnared by the air of romance: like a certain group of Antivan gentry."

"How did you stop being one?"

"Beneath the trysts and secrets, a bard is two things: a spy and an assassin. One day, I ran into a rival bard sent to kill my patron. We fought. Or, perhaps, 'scrapped' is the better word. He drew a knife. I pushed him in desperation. He fell down the stairs, and..." She bit down on her lip. "His own knife went into his throat."

Cullen remembered the maleficar, fingers reaching towards the crossbow bolt lodged into his throat. "You defended yourself. There is no reason to blame yourself."

The woman's head snapped upwards. "I took off his mask, and I knew him, Commander. He was a friend of mine, a fellow Antivan. We attended soirees together. I still remember him reaching out for the knife, trying to say... something. If I had said a single word, used my tongue instead of scrapping on the ground like a common thug..." She breathed out.

Cullen nodded in sympathy. "Then you took that shot at Redcliffe... and that memory came flooding back."

"Exactly. I do not regret fighting to defend myself and you and your men from a Tevinter mage. But... it reminded me of older regrets." Montilyet said. "And now you must think me silly. Too... soft to even defend herself probably."

"Trevelyan might have said that. I don't." The thoughts of the Gallows' bloody halls hit Cullen with full force. "I was a Templar, Josephine. They taught me to fight and if necessary kill. Trust me when I tell you that being able to kill without regret is _ not _ a good thing."

A faint smile played on the Antivan's lips. "Thank you, Com- thank you, Cullen."

"For what?" Cullen inquired.

"For listening. And for understanding." Josephine looked forward into the fire with an absent-minded gaze.

"Anytime." 

* * *

A knock came on the door, and Cullen's head snapped up. That was an unfamiliar knock: not the rapping, heavy blows of his soldiers coming back to report, nor the barely audible, rhythmic knocks of Leliana's agents delivering a summon or a vital piece of information. "Come in."

The door opened to an unexpected sight. It wasn't a messenger, not this time: framed against the sunlight coming through the door, in one of those frilly dresses of hers, Josephine gave him a faint smile. "Good evening, Commander Rutherford. May I?"

"O-of course." Cullen looked at the woman with pointed curiosity. Of the three advisors to Inquisitor Trevelyan, him and Josephine were the pair that worked together the least. Usually, by the time it was necessary to involve the army, the time for diplomacy would be long past. And of course, when Lady Montilyet needed to inform him of something, she almost exclusively used a messenger. 

He, however, did find enjoyable what time he spent working with her. Lady Montilyet was a pleasant and kind person- although, as Cullen had discovered at Redcliffe, she had steel beneath that exterior.

The Antivan seated herself with feline grace. "I do hope you fare well, Cullen."

It had been a long time since the Inquisitor and his advisors stopped addressing each other merely with titles and last names. They still did so in formal settings, but now, you could see even Inquisitor Trevelyan call his advisors by their first names. The 'Inner Circle', as Varric dubbed it, had grown to be... friends?

It was a strange feeling.

"Why would I not be?" The former Templar shrugged off the concern.

"I... heard about the lyrium." Josephine said. "I wondered how you were coping."

"Coping is the right word." Cullen admitted, hiding a clenched fist under the table. He could at times hear the emptiness inside him, the lyrium addiction calling out. "I'll manage."

_What I would have counseled you when you first took this decision is irrelevant. You decided to stop taking lyrium _ , _ on your own. You made a decision: stick with it. _ He remembered Inquisitor Trevelyan snap at him. _ A general is never indecisive._

"Just... remember we are here if you need anything." Josephine smiled. "I had actually meant to ask a favor of you, but that was before I found out about the lyrium. You shouldn't be too hard on yourself these days."

"Ask your favor."

Josephine's eyes opened wide. "I wouldn't-"

"Josephine, if I wasn't convinced I could function without lyrium, I would not be quitting it." Cullen breathed deeply. "How can I help you?"

"If you wish." Josephine didn't seem happy with the idea, but she dropped the subject. "I... need someone to fight a duel. With a certain nobleman."

A duel? Well, that was easier than he expected. Few people in the Inquisition matched up to Cullen in a swordfight: Blackwall was his peer, as was Ser Barris, and while the Inquisitor could give him some solid trouble, in sparring sessions Cullen managed to best him more often than not. There was also that Qunari... and that was about it.

The more curious part was, _ why _ him?

"That I can do." Cullen shrugged. "In fact, I could probably use the exercise. However... I'd have expected you to ask the Inquisitor instead. Not a lot of people come to me asking for help.

An expression mixed between amusement and incredulity formed in her face. "The Inquisitor? Don't misunderstand me, Cullen, but do you remember the last time I went to Andros Trevelyan for help?" She cleared her throat, straightened her posture, and out came the best impression of Inquisitor Trevelyan Cullen ever heard. "I recognize that the House of Repose has a contract, and they have a reputation they have to protect by following said contract. In fact, I admire them for it. However, as the Inquisition, we have a reputation of our own: one we have to protect."

"Oh." Cullen breathed out as he remembered that particular incident. "_ That. _" The way Inquisitor Trevelyan handled the matter of the House of Repose was particularly bloody: which was the intent of it, after all. And it did work... but Josephine hadn't taken it particularly well.

"He retaliated to the House intending to assassinate me by drowning the entire organization in blood!" Josephine snapped. "Look, I appreciate the Inquisitor: he is a good friend, and he seeks to help. But I have already learned to not go to him in a case where I _ don't _ want people to die."

"That's the catch of the duel, then?" Cullen raised a brow. "I have to fight with this... nobleman, beat him, but not kill him. Doesn't seem _ too _ difficult."

Josephine's cheeks reddened visibly. "Well... there's another catch. You are going to have to pretend to be a suitor."

Cullen's jaw dropped.

"I'm... _ what? _ You mean, _ your _ suitor?" The former Templar managed to force out those six words out between lips that still were too shocked to obey him properly.

"Definitely not Lord Otranto's, that is for sure." Josephine gave him a sheepish smile. "The gist of the matter is, the noble in question is, well... my fiance: a marriage arrangement between families. To which I certainly did not consent and which I definitely do not desire."

Cullen scratched his chin. "I'm still not _ quite _ sure how I factor in to this. Can't you, you know, talk to your family? Have it called off? They can't _ force _ you to marry, can they?"

"They can't. But I can already imagine the argument that's going to take place if I go that way. It would be... unpleasant, to say the least." The Antivan shook her head. "This way is simpler. It's an old custom prevalent among nobility: if two suitors pursuing the hand of the same woman duel over the matter, the loser is honor-bound to break off the pursuit."

The unsaid caught Cullen's attention. "So... wait. Does that mean the winner would be honor-bound to _ marry you? _"

"No!" Josephine laughed, likely at his expression. "Propriety requires the duelists both be, at least, prospective suitors, but it's a duel over the right to _ seek _ my hand in marriage. And nobody in Skyhold's really going to be paying attention, so... after a few months we'd just pretend as if the matter never worked out. That would technically give Lord Otranto the right to seek my hand again... but he'd never do it. I know the man: he is far too proud."

"I'll do it." Cullen leaned back. 

"You would?" Josephine frowned. "I had thought you'd-"

"I'd refuse, or be hesitant to do it?" Cullen shook his head. "We're friends, aren't we? Besides... we technically fought together at Redcliffe, so that makes us comrades at arms as well. I'd be a remarkably poor soldier if I let a comrade in arms marry someone he does not like now, wouldn't I?" He let out a chuckle.

"I..." Josephine looked... anxious? Flustered? "Perhaps this was not such a good idea. I'd rather not put you into danger."

"Josephine, I'm glad that you worry about me, but it'll be fine." Cullen smiled. "I might as well hang up my sword if I can't deal with some upjumped nobleman."

"Well... alright, then." Josephine bit down on her lip. "Cullen... thank you. This means a lot."

"You had insisted thanks were unnecessary when I tried to thank you after pulling me out of that mess in the Winter Palace. It applies here as well. No need to thank me."

* * *

"Ser Cullen Rutherford." Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto strode into the square, his posture confident, his second one step behind and to his side. "I must admit I had expected I could be challenged to combat for the hand of my dear fiance, but I would not expect my challenger to be a former Templar."

Cullen heard a faint cough from his second, and his instructions snapped to mind. _ You are a Templar of no nobility, _ Inquisitor Trevelyan had said. _ He will seek to use that. Remember: your rank, if not your birth, makes you his superior. Use it. _

Well, he was here playing a role all right. "And I had not expected that I'd have to challenge someone for the sake of my beloved, but here we are, Lord Otranto." He put on his best scornful impression: which, admittedly, wasn't excellent, but it'd do. "For I cherish her: even if it means I have to leave to others the duties the Inquisition demands of me."

The not-so-subtle reminder of Cullen's occupation took Otranto aback. "Far be it from me to keep you occupied any longer than you absolutely have to, ser. Shall we begin?"

Cullen nodded, and the duel's agreed upon adjudicator stepped forward in between the two duelists.

"I, First Enchanter Vivienne de Fer, accept the duty given to me to adjudicate this duel, between Ser Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath, and Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto of Antiva." The Orlesian mage stood tall and elegant in the middle of the square. "Seconded respectively by Lord Andros Berchtold Trevelyan of Ostwick, and Lord Venturo Aventil of Rialto. Do any object to my adjudication?"

Neither side raised any objection. Madame 'de Fer' was well known in Orlais. Hers wasn't exactly a benevolent reputation- but to object to her adjudication would be to imply that she wouldn't be impartial. It'd be an open insult: and it was a rare man brave enough to insult Vivienne.

The woman unsettled even Cullen.

"Seconds, present arms!" Vivienne's voice snapped, and Andros stepped up, Cullen's weapon in his hands. It was a Rivaini rapier, one of the Inquisitor's collection of arms. Cullen remembered with amusement when he had asked for leave to duel for Josephine's hand. He had taken that leave on one condition: Andros had insisted to be present for the duel.

_Nonsense. I'm not going to have my own general duel some upjumped Antivan without a proper second at his side._

In hindsight, the Inquisitor's presence had been exceptionally helpful. Cullen had never actually dueled with a rapier in Antivan fashion: for a way of swordfighting, it was drastically different from a Templar's longswording.

And as the challenged party, Otranto had the customary right to choose the weapon.

Vivienne picked up both of the rapiers from the seconds, and returned them after few moments of examination. It was largely a formality: neither of them would have had the opportunity to tamper with the other's weapon. As the seconds returned, Vivienne spoke again. "The challenger, Ser Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath. The challenged, Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto of Antiva. Brandish arms."

Andros held the sheathed blade out for Cullen, a smirk on his lips. He seemed to trust Cullen's ability to win more than Cullen himself did. The former Templar drew the rapier.

"Duel to be held in accord to the ancient rules of chivalrous and fair conduct." Vivienne's voice rang in the square, and Cullen took the chance to glance over to Josephine. Among the crowd gathered to watch the duel, she was at the forefront, several guards around her: the Inquisitor had insisted on guards for every high-ranking member of the Inquisition since the House of Repose incident. She was biting down on her lower lip. _ I'll win this for you, Josephine. _ Cullen thought. _ Don't worry. _

"The engagement is to continue until first blood or until one side yields. Fight with honor!" Vivienne snapped as she took a few steps back. 

Otranto stepped towards him, and the two began to circle each other, rapiers at the ready. The square was surrounded by tall buildings: the sun wouldn't be a concern in this duel. 

The blades, however, would be. Cullen thanked the Maker for the Rivaini blade as Otranto lunged forward, with several light, rapid thrusts poking at his defense. Rivaini dueling rapiers had sharpened edges and very broad blades by rapier standards: they were some bastard offspring of an Antivan rapier and a falchion. 

Which did make them somewhat unsuitable for traditional rapier fencing, but at least the blade's balance was a lot closer to the longswords Cullen was used to.

"I have heard much of your exploits, Ser. It is an honor to make your acquaintance." Otranto punctuated his statement with another barely-deflected jab. "Pity it will not last longer."

Half a dozen curses slithered through Cullen's mind as he managed to bat away Otranto's rapier. The Antivan was quick as a serpent, and he was distinctly inexperienced in rapier fighting. "Unfortunately I can't say the same." He took a step back to gain a moment of relief from Otranto. "I have never heard of you until you tried to be engaged to my beloved."

Cullen saw Otranto frown in annoyance, and that little verbal jab felt like a victory. "It is a shame she is here. It will be a bad first impression to cut you down before her." The Antivan came with another series of blows, each one a little faster, each one a little closer to him, each one a bit more difficult to deflect. Cullen could see Josephine over the shoulder of his opponent: biting her lower lip. Worried... for the fight? For the engagement in question?

This was about Josephine. Cullen did not claim to be close to her the way Leliana was, but she was a cherished friend. And ever since Redcliffe they had shared... something. He could not lose this duel: that was not an option.

As Otranto's rapier cut through the air, so close Cullen felt the wind from the strike, he had an idea.

The traditions of formal dueling dictated that both sides would have to bring reasonably equivalent weapons to the duel, as picked by the defending party: Otranto had picked a rapier, and tradition demanded Cullen use a rapier as well, even if a rather unconventional one.

But tradition didn't demand that he use his rapier the way a rapier duelist would: and with its broader and heavier blade, a Rivaini rapier was, by rapier standards, very close to a falchion... or a longsword. Cullen waited until he managed to bat aside another thrust, and stepped inside Otranto's guard with a powerful swing.

The Antivan had not expected that. The blow came: though the rapier's handle wasn't long enough for Cullen to use both his hands, his blow was still strong enough to smash through the kind of light, precise parries traditional to rapier dueling. He took another step to further close in with the next blow. The closer he was to Otranto the closer to his hand the Antivan would have to catch Cullen's sword, and the less leverage he'd have over it.

His blows weren't as fast as Otranto's, but they were solid, strong, and more importantly they were powerful cutting blows: something that must have been alien to Antivan fencing given the shock on Otranto's face and the increasing effort with which he dodged every blow. That wasn't a battle the Antivan would win: he was shorter and less strong than Cullen. He'd eventually tire out.

The golden opportunity came in the aftermath of one of Cullen's blows, which Otranto blocked by raising his rapier up just in time. The blades interlocked for a moment, and Cullen's free hand grasped Otranto's sword arm before the Antivan could pull back. His opponent was quick to grab on to Cullen's sword arm with his own free hand. But now it was a grapple: and in a grapple the stronger fighter had the advantage.

He pressed down, every muscle in his arms and back burning with effort, and the interlocking blades creeped closer to Otranto's face. He saw a vein pop up in the Antivan's forehead, drumming with effort, but it was not going to be enough. Otranto's eyes opened wide, and looked at something over Cullen's shoulder.

_Come on, _ Cullen thought. The 'Maker, something's behind you' glance was the oldest trick in the book, relying on one's opponent failing to control the reflexive urge to look back. It felt mildly insulting that Otranto had bothered to try it, even in desperation. 

The Antivan threw his whole weight sideways.

Cullen had been expecting Otranto to try something desperate. But physically _ throwing _ himself to the side wasn't one of them. He had been holding on too tight to let go in time, and he lost his balance. The ground came up to meet him just after he heard Otranto crash down with a yelp.

And another noise. The loud, eerily familiar _ twang _ of an arbalest, the whistle of something sharp cutting through the air, and the dry crack of steel hitting stone. He heard Andros shout one of those Tevene curses of his, shouts of panic, trampling feet and the rasp of steel against oiled leather. 

Cullen opened his eyes to Andros and Otranto's second, that Lord Aventil, dash forward with swords ready. The Anchor burned in the Inquisitor's hand, and a bolt of green struck one of the closest rooftops. The roof collapsed, as if struck by a giant's hand. "Assassin on the rooftops!" The Inquisitor shouted as he led an impromptu _ posse _ through the panicking crowd. 

Cullen leapt to his feet, sword still in hand, just in time to see Josephine run towards him. "Cullen!" She shouted out, fear infused in her tone. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Don't worry, Josephine. I'm fine." Cullen glanced upwards to Otranto, who stood there wordless. He hadn't seen how close that crossbow bolt had struck, but there were good odds he owed his life to the Antivan. That was annoying. It made it more difficult to hate the smug bastard.

Josephine threw her arms around Cullen, pulling him into an embrace even though only for a few seconds. Then she pulled back, grinning. "I... was worried about you."

Cullen opened his mouth to reply, and a poisonous idea bit at the back of his head. A single crossbowman to take a shot during a duel: it seemed far too crude and cheap an assassination attempt. Among the crowd gathered nearby, a shape moved in graceful intent. 

His fingers clasped around one of Josephine's shoulders, and he pulled her aside. His rapier was still in hand, and he swung it towards the flash of steel: a motion more instinct than deliberate. Blood sprayed the air. A man fell to the ground, skewered in the chest by Cullen's rapier.

"Josephine!" He heard the worry in his own voice as he spun around. 

"It-It's okay." The Antivan breathed out, visibly unnerved. She raised an arm where her dress was shredded, a long gash running up her forearm. Blood soaked the fabric. "Nothing serious. Just... this."

"We'll get a healer. Don't you worry." Cullen breathed out. This had been far too much action for a day.

"Cullen?" Josephine looked up at him, into his eyes. She seemed... thoughtful? No, not quite that.

"Yes?"

"Cullen, I..." Josephine's eyes rolled backwards in their sockets, and she collapsed into Cullen's arms.

* * *

The night sky made his blood boil.

Cullen looked around on the rooftop. That was the cost of the night's comfort: there was nothing around for him to smash in anger.

_I failed. I had one job: to protect her. I came here trying to protect Josephine from a marriage she did not want and I nearly had her killed._

He shouted into the night. If she died... no. He wasn't going to think about that. He couldn't.

Behind him, he heard the hatch up to the roof croak open. He cursed Trevelyan's habit for insistent talks. "Andros, now is _ really _ not the time."

"That is curious." An annoyingly Antivan voice replied. "Do you always address the Inquisitor with his first name?"

Cullen turned around, and saw a well-dressed figure walking out of the hatch. "Lord Otranto. What are you doing here?"

"I'd like to see to the health of my fiance, ser. Is it so surprising?" The man walked to the side of the roof next to Cullen. 

"In that case, she is not on the roof, Otranto." Cullen snapped back. "As you can plainly see."

"Indeed I can. But I must admit... I was also looking for you. Your Inquisitor told me you'd be up here."

_Maker, Inquisitor. Did I look like I wanted company? _ "Well, you found me."

Otranto shrugged, and half-turned towards Cullen. "It appears so. To begin with, I'd like to congratulate you on our duel."

Cullen snorted at that, not bothering a reply. With a sigh, Otranto continued. "I'm not offering empty platitudes, Commander. I speak from the heart: you are an exceptional fighter. If you ever in the future want a... friendly rematch, do not hesitate to call on me."

"I'll be sure to." Cullen shook his head. "Lord Otranto, you don't need to keep dancing around the point. Before you ask, I'll tell you: I'd rather have our attempt at actually finishing our duel _ after _ Josephine has recovered to a degree. You will understand if I am not looking forward to another duel right now."

Otranto laughed. "Oh, that won't be necessary. There won't be a second duel, Ser Rutherford: of course, you as a peer may challenge me to settle another matter with the sword, but there won't be one on this subject."

"I'd like to remind you that our 'matter' is yet to be settled. Neither of us have won that fight." Cullen frowned, jaw set stern. "You did in all likelihood save my life on that moment, Lord Otranto. That, I'm grateful for. But if you believe I will concede Josephine because of that gratitude you are _ sorely _ mistaken." Sorely mistaken? He felt an urge to chuckle: that seemed a very Andros way of speaking. The Inquisitor's habits were rubbing off on them.

Otranto raised his hands. "You misunderstand. I'd ask no such thing: there won't be another duel on this subject because the point of contention will cease to exist. My betrothal to Lady Montilyet will be officially terminated within the next week."

Cullen raised a brow. "I thought you desired this match, my lord."

"I did, and I still do. Lady Montilyet is a pleasant young woman: a person I'd most certainly cherish and care for. I'd like to think I would have been an excellent husband. But I've seen her fear for you, and I've seen you panic." Otranto shook his head after a long pause. "I know it when two people are truly in love with each other. And I have too much respect in myself to try and break _ that _ up."

Hold on. 'Two people truly in love'? Was that... true? Otranto certainly believed so, but... Cullen greatly doubted he had been that good an actor.

Fact of the matter was, he greatly doubted he had been acting at all. Was Otranto right? He didn't know, and thinking it hurt. He barely managed to force out a simple platitude. "Thank... thank you, Lord Otranto. For understanding." 

"You, Ser Rutherford, are a remarkable man. Honored to have made your acquaintance." He extended a hand, and waited until Cullen took it: a short, crisp shake of hands. The Antivan lord took a step back. "I will be off now: I have a long way to go for home, after all. I wish Lady Montilyet a most speedy recovery."

"Likewise." Cullen muttered as the Antivan walked away. "Safe travels."

Otranto's absence was soon filled with nothing but the wind, and his words echoed at Cullen's ears. _ I know it when two people are truly in love with each other. _ It would've been easy to dismiss it as Otranto having failed at reading their game.

But in truth? Cullen wasn't even sure how much of a game it had been.

With a sigh, he moved towards the hatch. He wanted to see Josephine: he _ needed _ to see Josephine. Everything else felt too complicated to think of.

* * *

"It's Quiet Death." Vivienne had said. "I'm sure of it. A concoction of half a dozen poisons each foul enough of their own."

Cullen had heard of Quiet Death. He had been lucky enough to never see it: it was an expensive thing, and dangerous too. He had watched Vivienne work over Josephine, her forehead sweated in effort. Bits of flesh scraped off around the knife-wound.

She'd recover, Vivienne had said, although she'd keep that jagged scar in her forearm.

Waiting here infuriated Cullen. He wanted to go out, find Vivienne, drag her back here. Demand she stay until Josephine woke up. He did not malign the Orlesian mage: he knew she had done her best. He just did not want to accept that.

But self-discipline prevailed, and he sat in this painfully rigid chair for hours, watching Josephine.

He idly took a sip from the cup of tea in his hands. A servant had dropped an entire pot of tea half an hour past: a comfort Cullen was glad for, minor though it was. He wasn't quite sure how long he had been here. To think he would rather be doing paperwork instead of watching Josephine like this...

Although it was debatable how well he'd be able to work in this mental state. He had suggested that to the Inquisitor: even at Val Royeaux, he'd be able to perform some of his duties.

Andros had snapped at that. "You will do no such thing, Commander Rutherford. You will go in there and stay with her. Until she's awake you're officially on leave." 

Cullen could swear he was grinning as he turned around.

"So. What's it with us and crossbows, Josephine? That seems... a strange coincidence." Cullen chuckled, glancing at her sleeping form. "I'm sorry. I came here to protect you from an unwanted marriage, and I ended up almost getting you killed. I should have insisted that you stay behind at Skyhold."

He took a sip from his tea. "You know, this is really good tea. Remember back after Haven, when we were sitting in that waste of snow? We decided we'd never quit. And we didn't... and look where we are now. Stronger than we were before. Life... has a way of making miracles happen, doesn't it? So, what I mean is... don't stop fighting. It's getting... unpleasant drinking this tea alone."

Cullen turned to the side to drop his empty cup on the coffee table. "And now I'm rambling. I really should stop doing that."

"I... don't really mind it." An accented voice rasped in the room.

Cullen turned back towards the bed before the next beat of his heart. "Josephine? Thank the Maker, you're... awake."

"You aren't getting rid of me that easily." Josephine's eyes were still squinting and her complexion pale, but she grinned slightly. "I smell tea."

Cullen moved to fill a spare cup. "How are you feeling?"

"As if every vein in my body's frozen solid." Josephine frowned. "What was it? Poison?"

Cullen nodded, handing her a cup and helping her stand slightly. "Don't think about it now. It's past."

"That's one experience I don't want to repeat." She shuddered. "What did I miss?"

"Not much. We're still in Val Royeaux. One change, though... Lord Otranto is terminating the betrothal."

Josephine raised a brow. "You won the second duel, I presume?"

"There was no second duel." Cullen shook his head as he filled a cup for himself. "He willingly stepped back. It seems your... plan worked better than intended: he said he'd rather 'not break up two people truly in love'."

Something skipped across Josephine's face for a moment: a shadow of a feeling too quick for Cullen to catch. "It seems it did." She bluntly said.

Cullen cursed himself. That had been a bad phrase to reiterate. Even he wasn't sure about what it meant, what he were to take from Otranto's observation, or whether to even care about it. 

But... he had been unsure of something before, back in Kinloch Hold. And he'd been too hesitant to think or say anything about that... and she had died in her Harrowing. In a world that seemed like it might burn for a mad god's ambitions any moment, he did not want to be unsure again.

"Josephine, I think I... care for you. As- as more than a friend, I mean." The words seemed painfully stupid and obscene the moment they left his mouth. He sighed loudly.

"Cullen, I-"

"No. Ignore that, please." Cullen cut her off. "It was wrong of me to- to put you in that situation. I'm sorry. I wo-"

"Cullen." Her address was more forceful this time, and it shut him up. He felt a hand, still weak and frail, lay on top of his. He looked up to meet her eyes.

"I think I'd very much like that." Josephine smiled.


End file.
